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We are debating port security. While we’re at it, how about airport security? Does anyone really believe that has gotten much better since 19 terrorists hijacked four planes five years ago?

This week I flew to Florida and back to give a speech and got another up-close look at how well the Transportation Security Administration is running the show. And it’s clear that no one jokes about TSA screeners frisking grandma anymore, not because it isn’t still happening, but rather because it’s not even darkly funny anymore.

6:10 a.m., Tuesday two days ago, LaGuardia Airport. A long line of what appeared to be roughly a thousand people was snaking down a hall past newsstands and shops. Chaos and an hour wait to get through security. A woman in an airport security uniform patrolled on the left, curtly instructing us to move to the right. A cleaning crew on the right barked, “Coming through, move please!” We stood nervously wherever we wouldn’t be yelled at. No one tried to help us, to calm the fears of those about to miss their flights. There was a lot of yelling—”I need your ID open and faced forward! No, you must put that in the bin!” After 45 minutes I got to the first security checkpoint, where I was directed to stand aside for extra clearance. I walked to the rubber mat, stood spread eagled in the Leonardo position, arms out, legs out, as a sleepy stranger ran a wand around my body and patted me for bombs. “Now I know how a cow feels in a cattle pen,” I said. I told her how carelessly we’d been treated. She was surprised. No one told her there were a lot of people waiting in line.

* * *

I gave the speech that night, and returned the next morning to the West Palm Beach airport for the flight home. Here, at 9:30 a.m., it was worse. Again roughly a thousand people, again all of them being yelled at by airport and TSA personnel. Get your computers out. Shoes off. Jackets off. Miss, Miss, I told you, line four. No, line four. So much yelling and tension, and all the travelers in slump-shouldered resignation and fear. The fingers of the man in front of me were fluttered with anxiety as he grabbed at his back pocket for his wallet so the woman who checks ID would not snap at him or make him miss his flight.

This was East Germany in 1960. It was the dictatorship of the clerks, and the clerks were not in a good mood.

After a half hour in line I get to the first security point.

“Linfah,” says the young woman who checked my ID.

“I’m sorry?”

“Linfah.” She points quickly and takes the next person’s ID.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t understand.”

Now she points impatiently. How stupid could I be?

Line Five. Oh. OK.

Ahead of me, throwing bags in bins, is a young mother with a two or three year old girl. The mother is tense, flustered. Bags, bottles, a stroller to break down and get on the conveyer belt. A security agent yelling: “Keep your boarding pass in your hand at all times.” The little girl is looking up, anxious. All these yelling adults, and things being thrown. “My doll!” she says as her mother puts it quickly in a gray bin. “We’ll get it on the other side!” says the mother. She grabs her daughter’s hand roughly.

“Take off your sneakers!” a clerk yells.

The mother stops, hops, quickly removes her sneakers. Her daughter has already walked through the magnetometer and is wandering on the other side. She looks around: Where’s mommy?

Mommy gets her sneakers in a bin, on the belt, gets through the magnetometer.

I’m relieved. Her daughter holds her mother’s leg. They begin to walk on.

A TSA clerk shouts to another, “You didn’t check the sneakers. You have to put the sneakers through.”

The second clerk yells—“Your daughter has to go through again!”

The little girl is scared—What did I do wrong? I’m sorry, mommy.

The mother is tense, gets a look.

I lift my chin at the TSA agent, smile, and say softly, “Miss, that poor girl with the child, she is having a tough time. The little girl is scared and—”

“We are following procedures!” said the TSA agent. Her mouth was twisted in anger.

I nodded and said softly, “I know, I’m just saying—a little gentle in your tone.”

She looked at my ticket and smiled.

“You have been chosen by the computer for extra attention.”

“What?”

“You have been chosen by the computer for extra attention.”

* * *

I am almost always picked for extra screening. I must be on a list of middle aged Irish-American women terrorists. I know a message is being sent: We don’t do ethnic profiling in America. But that is not, I suspect, the message anyone receives. The message people receive is: This is all nonsense. What they think is: This is all kabuki. We’re being harassed and delayed so politicians can feel good. The security personnel themselves seem to know it’s nonsense: they’re always bored and distracted as they go through my clothing, my stockings, my computer, my earrings. They don’t treat me like a terror possibility, they treat me like a sad hunk of meat.

I don’t think most of us get extra screening because they think we are terrorists. I think we get it because they know we’re not. They screen people who are not terrorists because it helps them pretend they are protecting us, in the same way doctors in the middle ages used to wear tall hats: because they couldn’t cure you. It’s all show.

* * *

I boarded my plane. Settled in, took out my notebook, wrote my notes. I turned to the man next to me. “Did you have a bad time with security?”

His eyebrows went up and he shook his head. “It’s terrible,” he said, in an English accent. He and his fiancée had come for a few days to southern Florida, they’d had hassles coming and going. He said, with wonder, that he was a smoker, that he always carried a keepsake, a gold cigarette lighter. Before he’d left for Florida he’d emptied it so it wouldn’t light, and he showed it to the security people at the airport. They told him he couldn’t take it on the flight. He asked them to send it to him, they said they couldn’t, he’d have to go back to the ticket area and give it to them. But then he’d miss his flight. “It’s your problem,” they said. He wound up giving the lighter to an airline clerk. “An $800 lighter! Empty!” He didn’t know if he’d ever see it again. He said, “It’s hard when”—and he put out his hands and shook them—“you’re already a bit of nervous about flying!”

* * *

It is almost five years since 9/11, and since the new security regime began. Why hasn’t it gotten better? Why has it gotten worse? It’s a disgrace, this airport security system, and it’s an embarrassment. I’m sure my Englishman didn’t come away with a greater respect or regard for America.

So we’re all talking about port security this week, and the debate over the Bush administration decision to allow an United Arab Emirates company to manage six ports in the United States. That debate is turning bitter, and I wonder if the backlash against President Bush isn’t partly due to the fact that everyone in America has witnessed or has been a victim of the incompetence of the airport security system. Why would people assume the government knows what it’s doing when it makes decisions about the ports? It doesn’t know what it’s doing at the airports.

This is a flying nation. We fly. And everyone knows airport security is an increasingly sad joke, that TSA itself often appears to have forgotten its mission, if it ever knew it, and taken on a new one—the ritual abuse of passengers.